


The Ghost of You is Close to Me

by golden_gardenias



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: ((that was a twin peaks reference and im laughing at myself)), F/F, Gen, In The Flesh AU, M/M, Shameless Big Bang, Who Killed Ian Gallagher, also a hate crime will be committed, and the effect it had on them, oh an it's a murder-mystery fic too!, other characters will talk about his death, so be mindful of that as well, so if you're sensitive to that please be careful, that 'major character death' tag is only because ian was dead, the story starts with him already risen, they have to figure out who killed him!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 08:02:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4514247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_gardenias/pseuds/golden_gardenias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian, recently risen from the dead and Partially Deceased Syndrome (PDS) sufferer, can't remember how he got to be deceased in the first place.</p><p>
  <b>on hiatus</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ghost of You is Close to Me

**Author's Note:**

> special thanks to kensie (@[unbrokengibberish](http://unbrokengibberish.tumblr.com)) for reading this over for me! and another thanks to bedo (@[doobs69](http://doobs69.tumblr.com)) for making [this awesome mix](http://doobs69.tumblr.com/post/126035078092/the-ghost-of-you-is-close-to-me-an-in-the-flesh) to go along with it!

It's an overcast day, and Ian finds it fitting. The clouds are as grey as his skin, as formless as the uniform all the patients wear, but it's made all the more dreary by the happiness he sees on all the doctors' faces; they seem impervious to the misgivings of their patients, continually throwing out encouragements about their impending release date. "How are your headaches, Ian?" Dr. Sama asks.

"Better," he answers quietly.

"And the flashbacks?"

He flinches at the mention of them, trying to will himself to stay in the chair. "They're, um. They're getting more vivid."

She smiles, like it's a good thing he can remember more of those months of wandering around hurting people, like she's pleased that he wakes up to their screams in the middle of the night. She must be able to read the look on his face, because she stops taking notes on her clipboard and fixes him with a stern glare. "Ian. These are good things, okay? Your memory's coming back, and that means you're responding to the medication."

"But what if it means I'm not ready?" he asks. The thought's been plaguing him for weeks now; having to leave the relative safety and routine of the facility, being thrust out into a hostile world that wants him dead. Well, dead again.

"Don't be ridiculous, of course you are."

He shakes his head, clenching his hands into fists. "Well, I sure as shit don't _feel_ ready."

She sits back, eyes bright. "That's exactly why you're ready, Ian; you're _feeling_."

This gives him pause, and he tries to backtrack. "It's--It's not just the flashbacks. It's everything, all the side effects--"

"Means you're responding," she interrupts gently. "All the things you’ve described in our sessions are perfectly normal, Ian. These are the results we hope for.”

“I know, it’s just--none of it feels right,” he says slowly. “My--My body doesn’t feel like it should.”

“All of that is to be expected,” she insists.

The smile on her face is frustrating, and Ian grits his teeth. “But I feel like I’m not me anymore, you know? Everything just feels... _wrong_.”

Dr. Sama is quiet for a moment before she responds. “Can you elaborate?”

He hesitates; now that he’s been given the chance to explain himself, he can’t find the words.  “It’s like...I was Ian Gallagher, before. And Ian Gallagher was a good person, for the most part.  He didn’t kill anyone, but I did. I...I killed a lot of people. Ian Gallagher wouldn’t have done that.”

“You’re not the first patient to bring up this dysphoria, Ian,” she reminds him kindly, “and you won’t be the last. We can make some adjustments to your cocktail that should help, okay?”

He nods, bringing a hand up to his mouth to bite his nail.

She makes another note before asking cheerily, “So, what about your family? Are you looking forward to seeing them at all?"

He shrugs, pulling idly at a loose thread on his tunic.

"Is there anyone you're looking forward to seeing?" she prods.

His fingers freeze, and his mind drifts unwillingly to Mickey.

"What's their name?" she asks softly.

He gulps. "His, um. His name is Mickey."

"Is he your boyfriend?"

"Yeah. Or at least he _was_ ," he mutters.

"Did the two of you break up?"

He hesitates before answering. "No, but we were going through a bit of a rough patch, I guess. And then I died."

"And then you died," she echoes.

He feels compelled to fill the somewhat awkward silence that follows, so he continues talking against his better judgment. "He's probably found someone else by now. I mean, I was...” he struggles with the word for a moment, trying to find the right one. “Gone. I was gone for two and a half years.” It hits him suddenly, how long he’s been away from his loved ones, and his breath hitches in his chest. Two and a half years...they’re all completely different people now. “And even if he hasn't, he's not gonna want to get back with me," he finishes, forcing himself to focus on their conversation.

"Why not?"

He blinks. "I'm a fucking zombie," he deadpans. "I hurt people, I _killed_ people--"

"Ian," she cuts him off sharply, "what have we said?"

He sighs. "'I'm a Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferer,'" he recites dully. "What I did in my untreated state wasn't my fault.'"

"Good." She glances at her watch and frowns. "Sorry, seems we've gone a bit over time. I'll see you once more before you leave, and then you'll be off!"

Her excitement isn't very catching, but he nods along with her anyway.

He'll be going home in a week.

* * *

_There’s a woman. No, a child, she must have been a child. A teenager. Someone’s child._

_She’s talking to someone on her radio, laughing. Carefree._

_She thought she was alone. She didn’t know they were hunting her._

***

He wakes up from his unintended nap feeling distinctly uncomfortable. It’s a familiar feeling, and not just because he’s been having this same nightmare for weeks now; he knows that if he were alive, truly alive, his heart would be racing and a cold sweat would have broken out all over his body. Her face is becoming clearer each night, and soon he’ll be able to see her eyes. He dreads it, not wanting to see the fear there, not wanting to see it jump to agony when he and the other girl, his hunting partner, wearing a pink hoodie, start gnawing on her.

“Ian.”

Dr. Sama’s voice startles him, and he sits up. “Yeah?”

“Your siblings are here.”

He stiffens and gulps, willing his hands not to tremble. Dr. Sama smiles gently at him, and gestures for him to gather his bag. He picks it up in a daze and walks out of the room on shaky legs, unsure of how he feels about the pending reunion.

He’d been dead for a year, he knows, before the Rising. He’d been untreated for nearly a year and a half, wandering with his hunting partner until they’d been captured and brought to separate facilities. (He wonders what her name is, if she remembers him, if she remembers what they did, if it keeps her up at night the way it does him.) In that time, his siblings have been living, going on without him. They’ve grown without him, experienced things and shared a trauma he won’t be able to reminisce with them about or help them through, and the sense of being so separate from them, so disconnected, leaves him feeling empty and more nervous than he’d been earlier.

Will they welcome him back? Will they want to live with him again, after getting so used to living without him?

(Mickey had been without him, too, for all that time. Mickey could have moved on, found someone else. He might be happy now, with his new boyfriend. This new guy would know Mickey better than he does, now, because a lot changes in two and a half years, doesn’t it?)

Their footsteps echo ominously through the hall, and they stop in front of the door that will lead him to where his family is waiting for him. Dr. Sama glances at him before she reaches out for the knob. “You ready?” she asks.

He takes a deep breath and rolls his shoulders, steeling himself for whatever their reactions may be.

She opens the door, and he can feel the way the air in the waiting area has shifted before he crosses the threshold. Fiona and Lip are there, and his sister stands immediately, eyes wide and watering as she brings a hand to her mouth. Lip leans heavily against the back of the bench, hands clenched and nails digging into his knees, an unreadable look on his face.

“Ian,” Fiona breathes.

He doesn’t know what to say. He feels unmoored, watching the range of emotions flit across her face; shock, relief, uncertainty, and a deep, indescribable sadness that stays in her eyes through it all.

She moves quickly after overcoming the initial wave of emotion, crossing the room and wrapping her arms around him in a practiced, familiar motion. Suddenly he feels overwhelmed--this is _Fiona_ , his big sister, and she still smells the same, still feels just as warm and comforting pressed against him, still runs her fingers over the back of his head and the nape of his neck.

He exhales shakily and bring his arms up to return her embrace, knows that his fingers are digging into her shoulder painfully, but he can’t loosen his grip, can’t stop breathing her in.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. He can hear the tears in her voice and wishes he could cry with her. “You’re okay.”

Lip’s breath hitches, and Ian looks up from Fiona’s shoulder to see him standing at the bench, eyes wet and hands shaking. He looks lost, and it’s disconcerting to Ian; Lip has always been sure, always constant, and Ian’s always looked to his older brother for guidance.

Fiona pulls away and wipes her eyes, looking from Ian to Lip and back again. Ian’s not sure what she’s waiting to see, but he opens his arms anyway, inviting his brother over. “C’mere.”

Lip seems to choke on his breath before he rushes toward him, hitting him with full force and wrapping him in a tight embrace. Tremors wrack through his body, and Ian can feel tears soaking his shirt. He’s at a loss on how to comfort him; when he tries to speak the trembling just gets worse, so he settles for squeezing his brother to him as tight as he can. Is this why none of his younger siblings are here, because they would react the same way as Lip?

They separate after another minute of holding onto each other, and Lip hastily wipes his face, taking a deep breath and shoving his hands into his pockets. Dr. Sama gives them a congenial smile before leading them outside, where they walk the grounds of the facility as she explains Ian’s condition and care to his siblings. Ian blocks this out once she starts talking about his contact lenses and foundation, trying to sort through his feelings on seeing the rest of his family.

God, it’s been so long... How much has changed? Debbie and Carl are teenagers now, Liam will have started school, Mandy’s graduated. It’s starting to get cold out--maybe she’s already gone away to start at whatever college she chose. Or did she decide to take classes at Malcolm X?

“Ian?” Dr. Sama calls. His head snaps up, and he realizes that he’d stopped walking in the midst of his musings, standing with his brow furrowed while they went along without him.

He moves quickly to catch up to them, and when he gets there Fiona links arms with him, shooting him a timid smile. Lip squeezes his shoulder briefly, and then lets his hand drop.

Their walk takes them to the parking lot, where Dr. Sama gives his siblings last-second reminders and tells Ian he can always call her before she doubles back, leaving them in a semi-awkward silence.

“She’s real thorough, that one,” Lip remarks as they head toward their car. “Really found her calling with this shit, huh?”

Ian finds himself grinning, eager to fall back into the easy rapport he and his brother have always had. “She told me she became a neurologist because she was scared of zombies when she was a kid,” he snickers. “Wanted to be able to tell herself how impossible everything was after she turned off _Resident Evil_.”

“Jesus,” Fiona mutters

Lip only laughs, shaking his head. “Those ones aren’t even that scary. It’s the _28 Days Later_ zombies you gotta watch out for. None of that slow walkin’ shit, it’s the fast ones.”

“Yeah, they always freaked me out,” Ian agrees. There’s a beat of easy silence before he makes it tense, asking, “So what kind were we?”

His siblings stop in their tracks, and Ian berates himself. Clearly some topics are still off the table as far as jokes go.

“You, um, started out slow, I guess?” Lip answers, scratching the back of his neck. “You got a little faster after you--after you, uh, ate, but for the most part you were slow. Slow and strong.”

Ian nods, and they lapse back into silence as they navigate the crowded lot.

They’ve only been walking for a few moments before they stop in front of a familiar black car, and Ian starts at the sight of it. “What happened to the van?” he asks.

Fiona snorts. “That piece of shit? It hasn’t run in years; Mickey said we could borrow this one.”

Something flutters in his chest at his name, and Ian rubs his palms against his jeans from muscle memory--he can’t sweat anymore, at least not yet, but he remembers the two years before he died when any mention of Mickey gave him clammy hands. “Oh?” he says, in a thinly veiled attempt at nonchalance. “So you guys are still talking, then?”

“He’s real close to the kids,” Fiona replies as they get into the car. Her voice is clipped, and there’s a slight frown on her face, like she doesn’t like him being around them. It perplexes Ian; they’d all gotten along surprisingly well before.

Maybe that was another thing his death changed, he muses. Maybe they’d only pretended to like Mickey for his benefit, and then dropped the act after he died.

“Oh, and he said to tell you,” Lip chimes in from the passenger seat, turning to look at him, “that he’d be over around nine. Think you can wait til then?”

Ian’s throat constricts, and there’s an odd tingling in his chest. He knows his heart should be pounding in excitement, knows that he should be breaking out in an anxious sweat, but none of it happens; his body probably won’t start to respond the way it used to for another few months.

He nods, unsure of the look on his face, but Lip grins at him, and he can see Fiona smiling in the rearview mirror. She seems happy enough, so maybe he imagined the animosity from a few moments ago.

Nine o’clock. He’ll see Mickey at nine o’clock.

***

The city seems grayer as they drive through it--buildings in disrepair, business facades crumbling. There are less people, too; no one is bustling about on their way home from work, no pedestrians are walking alone, and theirs is one of the only cars on the road. Even the graffiti is different. Rather than denouncing a group the way it used to, it sings its praises. “God Bless the HVF” and variations thereupon are scrawled onto practically every surface taggers could get their hands on. But there’s another message that seems to correspond with the other and pops up almost as frequently: “Send Rotters Back to Hell.” There’s a sign on a church encouraging citizens to be righteous, and he can’t tear his eyes away. “I thought things were different,” he says quietly. “With the new laws, and everything.”

Lip and Fiona exchange glances before Lip answers him. “Can’t legislate people’s shitty attitudes, you know?”

Ian nods absently. “What’s the HVF?”

They hesitate again. “Human Volunteer Force,” Fiona supplies.

“They were like our militia, during the Rising,” Lip continues. “Protected the neighborhood.”

“Protected it from people like me. From Rotters.”

They shift uncomfortably in their seats. “Yeah. Things got pretty crazy, when you were all untreated.”

Lip’s eyes are solemn, and Ian feels dread settle into his stomach. “And now? Now that we’re on the meds?”

Fiona bites her lip and looks at him apologetically, making eye contact with him in the mirror. “It--It’s probably best if you don’t go outside for a while.”

He blinks and turns his gaze back to the city around them, to a sign declaring him to be an abomination. “Okay.”

They fall into an uneasy silence after that, and he can feel their eyes flicker to him periodically before they look at each other.

He’s more than used to being an outsider; growing up gay in their neighborhood wasn’t ideal, but he could still control who knew about him, could hide it if he needed to, could pretend to be something else if it wasn’t safe. This wasn’t the case now. Now, everyone knew he was dead. Everyone would look at him and _know_. The thought leaves him feeling exposed, vulnerable, like a target at a shooting range.

They turn onto their street, and Ian watches his siblings’ eyes roam, looking for potential witnesses. Fiona parks and nods at Lip before turning the car off. “Alright, buddy,” he says with forced cheer as she gets out, “we’re gonna play this quick and easy. Just act natural and no one will have any reason to suspect anything.”

“You could be our cousin, for all they know,” Fiona adds as she opens his door. They flank him up the walkway, and Ian thinks he sees a curtain move when he glances at their neighbor’s house. He quickly forgets about it, though, because once they open the door he’s greeted by the sight of Mandy sitting on the couch with Liam in her lap, watching television.

Everyone in the room freezes, each party staring at the other, and Liam is the first to break. He turns to Mandy but keeps his eyes on Ian, whispering something that Ian can’t quite catch. Mandy nods in response, and Liam scoots himself out of her lap to make his way to the doorway where Ian is still standing with Fiona and Lip.

He’s so much bigger than he was the last time Ian saw him, and he marvels at the differences between four-year-old Liam and six-year-old Liam; longer limbs, better-fitting clothes, and a deep scar on the side of his face.

Liam approaches him slowly, and the two of them never take their eyes off each other. Once Liam has stopped in front of him, he regards him coolly, with more maturity than ought to be in such a small child’s eyes. “You’re one of the monsters,” he says calmly.

Ian’s mouth is dry, and he nods shakily.

Liam stares for another long moment before he walks to one of the shelves they keep family photos on, coming back with a picture of the two of them that was taken about a year before he died. “You’re my brother?” he asks.

Ian had never considered that his baby brother wouldn’t remember him, but now he feels foolish for thinking that he would; Liam was only four when he died, after all, and don’t kids start to form lasting memories at three? “Yeah,” he croaks out. “Yeah, little man, I’m your brother.”

There’s a beat of tension before Liam smiles and launches himself at Ian’s legs, squeezing tightly. “You’re Ian!” he says happily.

The choking relief coursing through him is almost enough to make his heart beat again. “That’s right,” he confirms, eyes burning with tears he can’t shed as he reaches down to pick Liam up. “I’m Ian.”

Liam embraces him fiercely, wrapping his arms and legs around him like a koala. “Please don’t leave again, Ian,” he says quietly, burrowing his face in the side of Ian’s neck. “I missed you.”

The burning in his eyes gets worse, and he clutches his brother tighter to his chest, inhaling his familiar scent. “Never,” he vows. “I’m never leaving you, buddy.”

Liam seems to have gotten his fill a few moments later, and pulls back from the hug to examine Ian’s face. “You don’t feel that different. They said you’d be different.”

“Who did?” he asks, but Fiona takes Liam away before he can answer.

“Come on, peanut, it’s Mandy’s turn,” she says, blowing raspberries onto his neck to distract him as she walks them to the kitchen.  “You wanna help me finish dinner, right?”

Ian was so focused on his brother that he’d forgotten about her, and he’s shocked to find her crying silently when he turns to face her. “Mandy...” he starts weakly, trailing off when he doesn’t know what to say to her.

She shakes her head and wipes roughly at her cheeks. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m fine,” she sniffs.  “I just didn’t think...I don’t know what I thought. You--you’re just so--”

She cuts herself off before he can find out what he is, crossing the room to wrap her arms around him tightly. “You were gone,” she says quietly, voice muffled by his jacket. “You were gone for so long, and now you’re _here_.”

He squeezes her gently, rocking her back and forth as she starts to cry again. “I’m here, Mandy, I’m here.”

He doesn’t know how long they hold each other before they separate.  She wipes her face again with the too-long sleeves of her hoodie, and it’s then that he recognizes it as his. “That my jacket?” he asks teasingly, trying to get her to smile.

It doesn’t work, and she only nods solemnly.  “Debbie made a blanket out of your shirts, and Carl wears your socks sometimes. Mostly when he’s nervous about something.”

He blinks, surprised and unsure what to say. “She didn’t use all of them, did she?  I don’t have much in that bag,” he adds, gesturing to the duffle he’d brought with him from the treatment center.

This gets her to laugh, and he relishes the sound. “No, don’t worry; Mickey saved a few.”

His insides seize up again. “He did?” he asks, hating the way his voice goes up.

She nods, smiling again. “Yeah. Didn’t even cut the sleeves off last summer.”

He grins at her, but his response is cut off when Liam rushes out of the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready!” he says, grabbing Ian’s hand. “Come on, sit with me!”

Ian laughs and allows himself to be tugged along. Mandy trails after them, exchanging a soft look with Fiona when Ian sits in a chair and pulls Liam into his lap. Lip places a small bowl of cheeseburger macaroni in front of them and then moves to fix his own.

Mandy grabs two bowls and turns to Ian. “You want any?” she asks.

Fiona answers for him. “His doctor told us he can’t eat yet,” she explains. “Not for another few months.”

Mandy nods and goes to put the extra back, but Ian stops her.  “Shouldn’t we leave them out for Debbie and Carl?” he asks, confused. “Where are they, anyway? It’s almost seven.”

Just as he finishes asking, the kitchen door opens. His younger siblings freeze when they cross the threshold, and the three of them take each other in.

Their differences are much the same as Liam’s; taller, better clothes, scars. Debbie’s hair is short, shorter than it’s been for years, and Carl’s expression has a hard edge to it. They’re wearing matching camouflage jackets, which strikes Ian as odd--they’d never expressed an interest in ROTC before.

He opens his mouth to greet them, smiling, when they look sharply away from him, glaring at Fiona. “What is that thing doing here?” Debbie demands. “Why is it holding Liam?” 

Her words smack the smile off his face, and he grips Liam tighter. “ _Debbie_ ,” Fiona hisses. “We told you he was coming home today.”

“And _we_ told _you_ that we didn’t want it in our house,” Carl snaps.

Ian’s mouth is dry. Mandy moves to stand behind him and puts a hand on his shoulder, but he barely feels it, numbed by the harsh words his siblings spit at him.

“Cut it out, guys,” Lip says, moving from the stove to stand at Ian’s side. Liam’s back is ramrod straight, face serious as he watches.

“Whatever,” Debbie mutters, rolling her eyes as she crosses the kitchen to go up the stairs.  “Have fun being eaten when it turns on you in the middle of the night.”

Ian flinches when her door slams, and Mandy’s grip on him tightens. Carl crosses his arms and fixes his dead stare on Fiona. “It’s not sleeping in my room,” he says firmly.

“Carl--”

“I’m not sleeping with that _thing_ in my room!”

“He’ll sleep in my bed,” Lip says shortly. “Alright? Is that okay with you?”

Carl eyes him for a moment before he shrugs. “Just as long as you lock the door.”

He stomps up the stairs. “Wait, don’t you guys want any dinner?” Fiona calls after him.

“We’ll eat when it goes to bed!” they holler down from Debbie’s room. Her door slams again, and the five of them are left to deal with the thick tension they left behind.

“Sorry about that,” Fiona sighs. “They’ve been...difficult, lately.”

Lip snorts. “Understatement of the decade.”

“Of the century, more like,” Mandy corrects. They smile at each other slightly before going back to the stove to resume fixing their bowls.

Fiona takes their place beside him, rubbing Liam’s back and kissing his forehead.  “It’s okay, sweetie,” she whispers. “Everything’s fine.”

She stands there until he’s settled back into Ian’s chest and resumed eating, a sad smile on her face. “He’s a little sensitive,” she explains at Ian’s confused look. “A lot of shit went down, during the worst of it.”

He wants to ask her more--about the Rising, about the scar on Liam’s face, about Debbie and Carl’s apparent hatred for him--but decides against it for now, settling for enjoying his brother’s warmth and the light chatter of everyone else. Liam starts to yawn a few minutes after he finishes eating, rubbing lightly at his eyes and making no move to get off of Ian. Ian smiles to himself and wraps his arms around Liam’s middle, pulling him further into his chest and encouraging the small boy to fall asleep on him. Liam always falls asleep faster around noise, so he decides to join the conversation around him. They never wade into anything meaningful, dancing around the pressing issues and keeping each topic frustratingly safe. There’s so much Ian wants to know, but every time he gears up to ask their faces tighten uncomfortably.

It’s after eight when Fiona offers Liam ice cream, and they decide to put him to bed when he doesn’t respond.

Carrying a sleeping Liam upstairs is comforting in its familiarity; this is something that hasn’t changed, then, something he can still do and still excel at.

He pauses in the doorway of his old room, something like nausea swimming in his gut. It’s as disconcerting as it is comforting to stand there when so much has changed, when everything around him and about him is so different. But he’s still the same person, isn’t he?  This is the same Ian cradling the same Liam, going into the same room and tucking him into the same bed, right?

The questions threaten to overwhelm him, and his palms start to tingle. He’s not the same person, he can’t be. He murdered people without a second thought, ate them like it was nothing, like they were nothing. And even Liam isn’t the same, not after whatever it was that gave him that scar. All of them have changed, and he’s so stupid for thinking anything could go back to the way it was--

“Ian?”

Lip’s voice startles him, and he almost drops Liam when he whips around to face him.  “Shit!”  Liam jerks awake, scrambling up his torso and clutching at him, breathing heavily.  “Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, buddy.”

Liam is still breathing erratically, even as Ian rubs smooth circles into his back. His thin chest moves harshly against Ian’s thicker one, and Lip gently eases him out of Ian’s arms, shushing him softly. “It’s alright, little guy,” he whispers. “You’re okay.”

Ian watches them with wide eyes, unable to stop his hands from shaking. “I--I didn’t mean to--”

Lip cuts him off with a wave of his hand, walking into the room and leaving Ian in the hallway.  He hears Debbie’s door open behind him, and then Carl is pushing him out of the way.

“What happened? What did you do?” he asks, glaring viciously as he positions himself between Ian and his brothers.

“Is he okay? I-I didn’t mean to scare him or anything--”

“What’s wrong?” Fiona and Mandy are on the stairs now, wearing nearly identical expressions of worry.

“It attacked Liam!”

“Shut up, Carl!” Lip calls from Liam’s bed. He says something else to Liam that’s too quiet for the rest of them to hear, and then he’s walking out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him. “He’s fine,” he assures them. “Just a little scared that’s all.”

“I’m sorry,” Ian says miserably. “I didn’t mean to--”

“No, no, it’s okay, Ian. It’s my fault, I snuck up on you. It’s happened with all of us, it was only a matter of time.”

He wants to disagree with him, because _none of this is okay_ , but all he does is nod helplessly.  “Is he asleep? Can I talk to him?”

Carl gives him a short “No,” but everyone else drowns him out. “Maybe in the morning,” Fiona says gently. “Let him sleep for now.”

He nods again, trying to control his ragged breathing. Lip claps him on the back, trying to reassure him, but it’s too hard, feels too much like--

_People are yelling. Screaming. Some are in pain, others are angry. At him. Why is he here?_

_There’s someone behind him, breathing rapidly and swinging. It feels like a bat, and suddenly he’s on his knees, his back throbbing. Except no, he didn’t feel it. He doesn’t feel anything. Is he hurt?_

_The man screams, and something warm sprays the side of Ian’s face. He turns and sees her, his hunting partner, teeth sunk into the man’s throat and grinning through the blood. But no, not smiling. Snarling?_

_He staggers away from the carnage, leaving her to her dessert. He’s not hungry. Not hungry, just. Empty. Different. He needs--_

“Ian?”

It’s Mandy’s voice this time, soft and unsure. He’s sitting in the hallway, curled up against the wall. They’re staring at him.

“Why don’t you go to bed?” Fiona suggests. He nods, feeling the weight of her fear in the way she hesitates before helping him stand.  He doesn’t miss the way Lip carefully avoids touching him, keeping his hands curled around Debbie and Carl’s shoulders instead.

“I, um. I have to wash this stuff off first,” he rasps, gesturing to his face. Fiona lets him go to the bathroom, and he shuts the door without looking at any of them.

He takes a deep breath, leaning heavily against the edge of the sink and avoiding his reflection.  This is too much; he should’ve insisted to Dr. Sama that he needed more time, should’ve pushed harder to stay. He’ll have to call her tomorrow, ask her to take him back.

He wets his face in cold water and drags a paper towel across it, trying to get rid of the caked on makeup. Wearing it made him feel like he was trying too hard, like he was an even bigger imposter than he’d initially thought--he doesn’t even really _look_ like Ian, does he? He has the same build as Ian, has his voice and his hair, but beyond that they’re completely different people. Ian wouldn’t have killed anyone. Ian couldn’t inspire that much hate from his siblings.  Ian wouldn’t scare Liam that badly.

Who is he, then, if he’s not Ian?

Someone knocks on the door, and he gives one last swipe across his face before opening it.  “Yeah?”

It’s Lip, holding Ian’s pillow.  “I, uh, put an extra blanket on the bed. And switched our pillows,” he says, handing over the one he’s holding.

“Thanks.”

They stand in a semi-awkward silence before Lip nods and walks back down the hall.  Ian follows his lead and heads in the opposite direction until his brother’s voice stops him again.

“You’re okay, right?” he asks.

The question is simple enough, but Ian doesn’t know how to answer it. Before, when he’d been asked that question, it was always about whether or not he’d had enough to eat, if his bruises had stopped smarting, if he felt stronger after getting over a cold. He’d known how they wanted him to answer then--I’m not hungry, it doesn’t hurt, I’m fine.

He has no idea how to answer it now.

Lip takes his silence as his answer and nods to himself.  “Night, Ian.”

“Night, Lip.”

The room, like so much of what he’s encountered today, is different from what he remembers; there’s an actual door instead of the flimsy old accordion door that’d been there before, it’s almost immaculately clean, and there’s an axe hanging on the wall. The sight of it makes him gulp, and he can’t stop thinking about the circumstances that made it necessary. He settles himself on the opposite side of the bed, facing the window and trying not to imagine Carl or Debbie sneaking in while he sleeps and dismembering him. It’s surprisingly easy to relax, and he almost laughs at himself; it’s barely nine-thirty and he’s already exhausted.

Wait.

He sits straight up and pulls Lip’s alarm clock closer to him. 9:33. Mickey was supposed to be here a half hour ago. “Fuck,” he breathes. “No, no, no.”

Mickey didn’t show.  He’d probably thought better of it, realizing that whatever he had going now with whoever he had it going on with was better suited for him.  He didn’t want a zombie who could snap and slaughter his family at any moment, didn’t want someone who had such a loose grip on reality that he wasn’t even sure he was the same person.  Whatever kind of person--if he could even be considered a person--he was now didn’t deserve Mickey, anyway. Mickey should be with someone who was alive, truly alive, whose heart could speed up at the sight of him and whose palms could sweat at the mention of his name. The rejection still hurts, though, and he hasn’t wanted to cry so badly in months.

The door creaks open, and he almost tells whoever it is to go away and let him wallow--unless it’s Debbie or Carl, he thinks idly. Then he’ll gladly hand them the axe.

“Ian?”

He stiffens, holding his breath. He hears the floorboards protest under the weight of whoever is edging closer to the bed, smells the familiar scent of cigarettes and sweat and the crisp, almost cinnamony tang of Old Spice--

He sits up, unable to take it any longer. Please let it be him, please let it be him...

Mickey is standing at the end of the bed, wearing the same camo jacket Debbie and Carl had come in with. Ian can’t read the look on his face, and the silence stretches on between them for an eternity. “Sorry I’m late,” he offers lamely. When Ian doesn’t respond, he bites his lip and starts to babble. “I got stuck on patrol, only managed to get Colin to switch with me at the last minute. Been tellin’ them for a week that I needed tonight off, but they don’t fucking listen--”

“You’re here,” Ian whispers.

Mickey freezes at the sound of his voice, a small smile playing at his lips. “You’re here too,” he replies softly.

Ian doesn’t know which of them moves first, but suddenly they’re embracing and Mickey’s hands are everywhere; running through his hair, gripping the back of his neck, pressing between his shoulder blades, rubbing down his back. His touch warms Ian to his core, making something in his chest twinge delightfully.

He pulls back suddenly, eyes hard.  “Are you okay?” he asks, framing Ian’s face in his hands.  “You guys got in alright, nobody bothered you? No one saw you?”

Ian nods rapidly, eager to get Mickey’s arms around him again.  “Yes, I’m fine, everything was fine, just--”

Mickey cuts him off with a soft, unhurried kiss. Ian feels when he does it, the way Dr. Sama said he was supposed to, and he can’t be all bad, can he? He must still at least vaguely resemble the person he used to be, if Mickey is still kissing him. Mickey wouldn’t kiss him if he wasn’t Ian, right?

Neither of them make any effort to deepen it, only pressing their mouths together over and over until they run of breath. Mickey’s eyes are piercing when he pulls away, roaming all over Ian’s face. “I missed you so fucking much,” he says quietly, letting his forehead touch Ian’s. “God, you have no fucking idea.”

“I missed you too,” Ian returns, kissing him again. “So much, Mickey, I missed you so much.”

Mickey lets out a watery laugh before leaning up to kiss Ian’s forehead.  “I’m so glad you’re okay,” he murmurs, petting through Ian’s hair again.

Ian wraps him in another hug, trying to breathe in as much of him as he can. Mickey drops another kiss to the top of his head as they separate, stopping to look at him before he starts taking off his jacket. “Mind if I crash here tonight?” he asks with a grin.

Ian returns his smile. “Inviting yourself to a sleepover?”

Mickey shrugs. “As long as you’re not kicking me out.”

It’s not as awkward as Ian feared it would be, when Mickey climbs into bed with him; they’d only fallen asleep together a handful of times before, but they settle into it easily now, with Mickey’s warmth radiating under the blankets. “I’m so glad you’re here,” Ian whispers, trying to contain his smile.

Mickey brings his hand up to Ian’s face again, a soft look in his eyes that Ian remembers dreaming about while he was in the hospital. His expression turns sharp, though, after a moment, and his thumb stops stroking Ian’s cheek. “What’s wrong with your eyes?” he asks.

Ian furrows his brows in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“They aren’t the right color,” he frowns, leaning in to get a closer look. “They’re a different shade. Does that stuff they inject do that to you?”

Ian’s stomach clenches. “No, they, um. They give us contact lenses to wear. I guess mine don’t match.”

Mickey nods to himself, still staring at Ian’s face. “What do they look like without them?” he asks quietly.

Ian shakes his head and turns so that Mickey’s hand falls away from him, fixing his gaze on his pillow and trying to ignore the swooping in his stomach.  “Dead,” he answers, throat dry. “They look dead.”

Silence stretches between them, and Ian braces himself for when Mickey will get out of bed, get dressed, and leave him.

“Can I see?” he asks hesitantly, stretching his arm out to graze his fingers lightly against Ian’s arm.

Ian’s shoulders tense, and Mickey places more of his hand on his arm in response.  “You have to take them out anyway, man,” Mickey reasons. “Not supposed to sleep with contacts in.”

Ian is shaking his head before Mickey finishes speaking. _These are the eyes of a monster_ , he thinks.

“I don’t want to take them out, alright?” he insists. There’s an edge to his voice that makes him nervous, but he takes a deep breath and goes through the affirmation mantra Dr. Sama told him to do whenever he started to doubt his humanity. _I am Ian Gallagher. I have a family who loves me. I love my family. I am Ian Gallagher. I have a family who loves me. I love my family._

Mickey eyes him for a moment before shaking his head and sighing. “Alright, fine. I don’t wanna argue your first night back.”

Ian swallows. “Neither do I,” he replies softly.

“Oh yeah?” Mickey asks, grinning. “What do you wanna do, then?”

Ian laughs, shaking his head. “That wasn’t a come-on. And isn’t that kinda skeevy, fooling around with a dead guy?”

Mickey shrugs. “You look plenty alive to me. And it’s been a while, so you can’t really blame me for trying, can you?”

 _You look plenty alive to me. You look plenty alive to me. You’re alive, Ian. Your name is Ian Gallagher, and you are alive._ “Oh really?” he asks, trying to be coy and probably failing. “It’s been a while?”

Mickey doesn’t blink. “Couple years, give or take a few months.”

Ian breaks their eye contact, watching his fingers pick at the blanket. “So there wasn’t anyone else?”

There’s a pause before Mickey’s hand enters his line of sight, landing on his twitching fingers and flattening them. “There was never anybody else,” he whispers, voice steady. “God, do you have any idea...” he trails off, and Ian chances a look at him out of the corner of his eye. He’s biting his lip, brows furrowed in concentration as he tries to find the right words. “It all went to shit,” he croaks. “Nothing mattered, and everything just seemed...flat, I guess? I was a fucking fall-down mess, and everyone else was just...lost. I couldn’t even go to your funeral,” he adds, hanging his head in shame. “Got fucked up with Lip instead, visited you after.”

“You were hanging out with Lip?” Ian asks, surprised. It was hard enough to get his brother and boyfriend to be civil to each other when he was alive, and now they were drinking together?

Mickey snorts, like he knows what Ian’s thinking. “Yeah, it surprised me too. But he was--he was having a hard time.”

His words hang in the air between them, and Ian doesn’t know what to think. “Did it ever get easier?” he asks quietly.

He’s not sure what he means, but when Mickey’s head snaps up to answer fiercely, “It was _never_ going to be easy,” he thinks he figures it out.

They stare at each other for an indeterminable amount of time before Mickey puts a stop to it. “We should go to sleep,” he says. “You need your rest.”

“Well, I was supposed to be enjoying my eternal rest,” Ian jokes before he can help himself. It falls flat, and Mickey glares at him.

“That’s not funny,” he rebukes. “Christ, you still don’t know anything about timing, do you?”

“Nope,” Ian grins, laying down. “I’m unteachable. Hopeless. Incorrigible, I’d go so far to say.”

“You don’t know what that means,” Mickey mutters, laying down in turn. “Can’t even spell it, I’ll bet.”

“Fuck you,” he laughs. This is good, he can do this, he can handle light teasing and stupid banter.

“I tried to earlier, but you wouldn’t let me,” Mickey gripes. “Quit sending me mixed signals, you’re killin’ me here.”

“Nah; the only one getting killed around here is me.” _Fucking hell, why the fuck would you say that, dumbass?_ He closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see the stricken look on Mickey’s face. The air in the room gets tense as Mickey shifts his weight, and he pretends not to notice it.

Mickey rests his hand gingerly on his exposed cheek, and he risks opening his eyes. “Not if I can help it.” His mouth is set, and Ian’s never seen him look so determined.

Eventually, the gentle stroking of Mickey’s thumb against his skin relaxes him enough to try to sleep. He’s just about drifted off when he feels Mickey press a light kiss to his forehead. “No one is touching you,” he declares softly, giving his head one last pat before moving to his side of the bed. Ian wants to open his eyes to get one last look at him, wants to hold him and tell him he loves him, but all he can manage is a garbled “You too” before he’s asleep.

* * *

Ian and Mickey hadn’t shared a bed enough times for them to have designated positions, but Ian had always imagined himself to be the one holding Mickey; not just because he was bigger, but because Mickey seemed much more relaxed when Ian was pressed on top of or behind him. It’s a welcome surprise to wake and feel Mickey's arm around him, though--the even puffs of his breath against the back of Ian’s neck, his hand twitching every so often against Ian’s sternum. He smiles down at that hand, wondering if its occasional movement was what woke him when a shadow falls across his face.

“Sit up,” Carl says. The knife he’s brandishing gleams in the moonlight filtering through the curtains, and Ian freezes. “ _Up_ ,” he demands, edging closer to the bed.

Ian closes his eyes, trying to jostle Mickey as little as possible as he slides himself into a sitting position. His eyes flicker to the spot on the wall that holds the axe, only to find it empty. “Don’t even think about it,” says another voice, and he turns to see Debbie standing at the end of the bed, wielding it. She looks disturbingly comfortable with its weight.

He swallows convulsively around the lump in his throat, trying not to look at Mickey’s chest rising and falling steadily out of the corner of his eye. “Please don’t hurt him,” he whispers. “I--I’ll leave, okay? I can leave tonight, just _please_ \--”

“Shut up.” Carl steps forward again after issuing the command, and his weapon comes into full view; its blade is long and slightly curved, and Ian remembers that it used to belong to him.  “My brother taught me how to use this,” he says, noticing Ian’s eyes on it. “He said I was a natural. Do you want to find out what I can do with it?”

“Carl--”

“Are you a demon?” he asks suddenly, cocking his head to the side. “Or something else?”

Ian thinks for a moment that the question might be rhetorical, but neither Carl nor Debbie make an attempt to fill the silence, so he answers anyway. “I don’t know what I am,” he admits quietly. “They tell me I’m Ian, but sometimes...sometimes I’m not sure.” _I am Ian Gallagher. I am alive. I have a family who loves me. Your name is Ian Gallagher. You are alive._

His siblings seem surprised by his honesty, and he sees Debbie shift her weight uncomfortably out of the corner of his eye. “How do they know?” she demands abruptly.

“Well, first I came out of his grave,” he quips. They don’t smile. “And, uh, once they caught me and my tissue was healthier, they did some tests to make sure?” His voice cracks like it used to when he was Carl’s age, and he half expects to hear Lip laugh at him.

Instead, he hears Mickey make a disgruntled noise before he sits up, startling them all. “What the fuck did I tell you shitheads yesterday?” he asks gruffly, rubbing a hand over his face.

They flounder, losing their bravado in Mickey’s carefully affected grumpiness. Ian appreciates the fact that he doesn’t pull out the gun he more than likely has stashed under his pillow. “I pulled the two of you aside after patrol yesterday, did I not?” he asks pointedly. At their nods, he continues. “And the three of us had a discussion, didn’t we?” They nod again, avoiding his gaze. “Tell me what we talked about, Carl.”

Carl rolls his eyes and relaxes his stance, dropping the arm with the knife. “You reminded us that Ian was coming home.”

“And?” Mickey prompts.

The two of them grumble under their breath, and Mickey snaps at them to speak up. “Told us that we were not to engage,” they recite grudgingly.

“See, that’s what I thought. But here we are, you two jokers acting like the fuckin’ Winchesters or some shit.” Ian barely manages to hold in his snort, but Debbie narrows her eyes at him, so he knows he must not have done a very good job. Mickey continues without looking at him, focused on chastising his siblings. “You wanna explain to me why that is?”

A solemn silence stretches on for a few moments, and Mickey sighs heavily. “Check your weapons at the door and go to bed, you maniacs. And you better not pull any shit like this again, or you’re the ones who’re gonna get chopped up while they sleep.”

Debbie cracks a wan smile at his threat and hangs the axe back up on the wall. Carl stays put, though, watching Mickey intently. “How do you know it’s him?” he asks quietly.

Ian remembers Carl being small and scared, standing at the foot of his bed after a nightmare. _“But how do you know the monster’s gone?”_  

Mickey chews his lip, like he’s unsure how to answer. “I don’t know what to tell you, man. I saw him, and I...it felt--” he cuts himself off, and Ian empathizes with his inability to describe the bone-crushing relief that had nearly overwhelmed him.

Carl’s eyes flit over to Ian for a split second before jumping back to Mickey. “And you trust him?”

Mickey doesn’t blink, and his voice is firm. “With my life.”

Carl seems to mull this over before handing Ian his knife, careful to avoid touching his fingers when he does. “I have others,” he warns darkly. Ian only smiles at him.

Mickey exhales as they close the door, shoulders tensing. “I told them,” he mutters. “I fucking told them.”

Ian reaches out tentatively to rub Mickey’s upper arm, and Mickey stops his grumbling to take a deep breath. “I gotta tell Fiona in the morning,” he sighs. “She’ll work something out with Lip and Mandy, make sure it’s not just you and Liam here after school.”

They sit in a companionable silence while Ian tries to work some tension out of Mickey’s back. The weight of all the conversations he’d avoided having today are pressing on him, and Ian decides to try his luck with Mickey. “I thought they would want me back,” he murmurs.

Mickey turns so that they’re facing each other, and Ian’s arms fall away from him. “No, no, they do,” he assures him. “They just need to get their heads outta their asses about it first, alright? They missed you just as much as the rest of us.”

Ian gives him a small smile. “Mandy told me about the blanket Debbie made, with all my shirts.”

Mickey doesn’t smile back; the sadness in his eyes looks too deep to penetrate. “Yeah, that was...that was really tough.”

The silence is charged now, and Ian tests the waters by asking, “What was it like?”

He doesn’t have to clarify what he means, and Mickey suddenly looks like he’s aged ten years. “It was fucking horrible,” he rasps. “We, uh, we didn’t know where you were for a day, maybe? You and me were supposed to meet up, and you never showed. I was pissed at first, ‘cause you didn’t text me or anything, just blew me off, but then you...you didn’t go home. No one had heard from you for hours, and Debbie was freaking out. Fiona tried to hide it, but everyone knew she was too.” He takes a deep breath, one that Ian can hear rattling in his chest before he releases it. “And then...then Lip found you.”

Ian’s mouth is dry. “Where was I?” he asks hoarsely.

Mickey closes his eyes and rubs at his temples, like he’s trying to force out whatever memories have burrowed themselves in like a parasite. “In the dumpster. He was taking out the trash.”

“Shit,” Ian breathes. “How--How did I get there?”

Mickey’s breathing is getting ragged, and Ian realizes that they probably shouldn’t talk about this, at least not yet, but then he notices the way Mickey’s fists shake in anger. “Someone shot you,” he bites out. “They shot you on the sidewalk, and then threw you away.”

Ian rests his hand lightly on Mickey’s wrist, trying to put as much comfort as possible into the touch. They’re quiet for about a minute before he decides to try for one more question, hoping he can piece together more about his last day. “Do you know who it was?”

To his surprise, Mickey lets out a short laugh and shakes his head. “Ian, if I knew who it was, I would be in prison right now.” The smile slips from his face quickly, and his eyes are hard when he resumes speaking. “That cop neighbor of yours, Tony? He tried to help us for a while, but he couldn’t come up with anything. All he could tell us was that they must’ve used a silencer.”

“Maybe we could ask him to look again? It’s been a while, maybe time away from it will have helped,” Ian suggests.

Mickey winces. “Ian, he, um. Tony died. During the Rising.”

Ian feels colder on the inside than normal. “Oh.” He realizes then that there are so many more people he hadn’t accounted for when he was coherent enough to talk to Fiona in the hospital; he’d asked about his siblings, and Mickey and Mandy, but not Jimmy, or Tony, or even Kev and Vee. “What about--um. Is anyone else...”

Mickey puts him out of his misery, his eyes sympathetic. “Kev got hurt,” he answers quietly. “He’s okay now, but it was pretty bad for a while. He’s in a wheelchair now.” Ian nods, not trusting himself to speak. “And Frank, uh.” Mickey hesitates, looking at Ian uncertainly. “Frank’s dead, too.”

Ian freezes at the news, simultaneously surprised and not that he’d completely forgotten about his father. “How?” he asks incredulously. Of all the things Frank had managed to survive before, what was it about the Rising that did him in?

Mickey looks uncomfortable now, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to tell this story. “Fiona was helping with supplies, and Lip was trying to help build a barricade, so Frank was here with the kids. One of the--one of _them_ \--” he amends. Ian knows what he was going to say, and appreciates the change. “got into the house. It...it went after Liam, and Frank fought it off. Carl only managed to kill it after he was already dead.”

Ian doesn’t know how to react. He can imagine Liam screaming, terrified and in pain; Debbie trying desperately to calm him and tend to the gash on his face; Carl staring blankly at the death in front of him, unmoving until Vee ushers him away.

He pictures Fiona having to wipe up their father’s blood the same way she’d done with their mother’s.

“Do--Do you know--? I mean, does anyone know about my mom?” he stammers. He feels something building in his stomach, a great swell of emotion that burns his eyes.

Mickey shakes his head. “We didn’t hear anything.”

Something clenches in his chest. Mickey moves closer to him, shushing him softly and wiping a thumb across his cheek.

He’ll have to call Dr. Sama tomorrow, let her know that he finally managed to cry.

* * *

The Gallagher house settles into a strained routine within Ian’s first week home: Fiona administers his medication, an injection into the back of his neck, while Mickey and Lip watch closely; he sits at the table with everyone else while they eat breakfast; and then they all disperse--except for Fiona, who doesn’t go to work until after she picks Liam up from morning kindergarten. It’s nice to be in the house alone with her for a few hours, watching her bustle around and mutter to herself. He finds it comforting, and she always smiles at him when she catches him looking. Sometimes it gets boring, though, and he’ll find himself fighting the urge to take Liam to the park, or go on a walk with Mandy, or hang out at the Alibi with Lip. The treatment center had regular excursions outside for their exercise hour, and sitting in the living room all day is making him stir-crazy.

On the day that marks a week of him being home, Fiona comes over to where he’s sitting on the couch, watching TV but avoiding the news. “I’m really glad you’re here, Ian,” she tells him carefully, like she’s been thinking about what to say for a while. “You have no idea how happy we all are.”

 _You are Ian Gallagher. Your family is happy to have you. You are alive._ “I’m happy to be here too, Fi,” he answers, throat tight.

Her face wrinkles like she’s going to cry, and he reaches for her hand. She clutches it with both of hers, resting her head on his shoulder and exhaling wetly. “I’m sorry about the kids. We tried to talk to them, explain things, but...” she trails off and sighs, squeezing his hand. “It’ll get better,” she vows. “They’ll come around.”

He nods slowly. “I know. They stopped calling me ‘it.’” This is only a technical truth; they've actually stopped acknowledging him entirely, and he's not sure which he prefers.

“Small victories,” she snorts. She sobers after a moment, pushing herself up to wipe at her eyes. “It’s the fucking HVF,” she mutters darkly. “I tried to get them out of it, but they wouldn’t listen. And Mickey does what he can, I know he does, but they’re too young for all that shit. I don’t know why they were allowed to join in the first place.”

“Maybe they just needed an outlet, after what happened with Frank.”

Fiona sighs, and Ian can see the weight of all she’s had to endure--raising her siblings for nearly her entire life, mourning Ian privately while comforting the rest of them through their grief, cooking in the same kitchen she’d had to scrub up bloodstains on two separate occasions--sitting on her thin shoulders. “Sometimes I hear the door open and I expect it to be him,” she says quietly. “And it’s stupid, ‘cause I never wanted it to be him before, you know? He’d get here and I’d tell him to leave. But...”

She trails off and looks away from him, seemingly embarrassed for her sudden display of emotion. “It’s stupid, right? Missing the smell of urine, stale beer, and poor life choices in the couch cushions?”

Ian nods solemnly. “A bit, yeah. But at least the poor life choices are still there,” he offers.

She smiles, shaking her head. “We’ll always have those to fall back on,” she agrees.

They sit commiserating for a while, each leaving the other to their thoughts, before someone knocks on the door. Fiona goes to answer it with a frown on her face, and Ian hears a brusque voice ask, “Are you Fiona Gallagher?”

“Who’s askin’?”

“Gail Johnson, I work at the free clinic. Is Ian here?”

From his position on the couch, Ian can see Fiona glance around outside before granting Ms. Johnson entrance. “Sorry it took so long to send someone,” she says as she crosses the threshold into the living room. “We’re a bit understaffed at the moment.”

Ian and Fiona exchange unsure glances before Fiona asks, “Are you the PDS advocate? They told us someone would come by when we picked him up.”

Ms. Johnson nods, pulling a small stack of forms out of her bag and setting them on the coffee table. “I’m mostly here to explain the clinic’s policy regarding medical care, but we have some information on reintegration, too.”

“Medical care?” Fiona asks, sliding the first form across the table top and picking up an errant pen.

“Adjustments to his medication dosages, check-ups to monitor rate of return to full-body function, counselling, stuff like that.”

Fiona nods, glancing over another page. “And we can call to set up appointments?” she asks.

“Mmhmm. And if you sign here,” she indicates a line marked with a bold x, “you’re giving us access to his records at the Springfield Treatment/Rehabilitation Facility.”

Fiona’s had hovers uncertainly above the paper. “We don’t have insurance...”

“That’s not a problem,” Ms. Johnson assures them readily. “We’re mostly volunteers, and we’re government-funded.”

“You mentioned something about reintegration, too?”

She nods, pulling out a second set of forms. “We gathered some data based on a national poll that runs each month, trying to gauge the public’s reaction to PDS sufferers,” she explains.

Ian’s hands shake slightly as he scans the results. “79% unfavourable,” he murmurs.

“That number has gone down, though,” Ms. Johnson continues, pointing out another chart.

“Only by 5%,” Ian protests.

Ms. Johnson only shrugs. “5% in a month seems like a pretty steady decline. Stricter legislation is being passed as well, so you’ll be afforded more protection under the law.”

“Like what?” Fiona inquires.

“Well you’ll be pleased to know that your inalienable rights have been awarded to you once again, so congratulations,” she quips. “A bill against job discrimination should be coming next, and there’s some other ones we’ve been working on.”

“Like?” Ian prompts.

“Whether or not property that was bequeathed can be reclaimed, whether or not convicts who murdered those of you who came back to life should be released from prison, whether or not murderers who weren’t caught before can still be prosecuted now, etc.” she finishes with a wave of her hand. “It’s all pretty boring on paper, but it makes for great daytime talk show fodder.”

Ian is silent for a few moments, mulling the information over. “Would you recommend anything? Like, do you have a pamphlet or something for easing into it?”

She shakes her head regretfully. “No, but not going out alone is highly advised; crime against PDS sufferers still occurs at an alarming rate, so be aware of your surroundings, and make sure someone knows where you are.”

His stomach sinks; there go his plans for the day.

“Oh trust me, he’s not going _anywhere_ ,” Fiona remarks, still looking over crime statistics.

Ms. Johnson gives her a small smile before schooling her expression into something more professional and checking her watch. “Here’s my card,” she says, fishing it out of her pocket and setting it between them on the table. “Call me for anything regarding reintegration, and call the clinic for anything pertaining to his medical care.”

Fiona notices her packing up and blanches, pushing herself off the couch and hurrying to the dryer. “Shit, what time is it? I gotta get Liam, get ready for work--”

“I can get Liam,” Ian suggests.

Ms. Johnson shakes her head at him. “Take care of yourself, kid,” she calls over her shoulder as she walks out. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

He pretends to be offended, and Fiona scoffs. “Read those over,” she says, inclining her head toward the crime reports as she changes her shirt. “Then give it to Mickey and Lip when they get home, see if they don’t lock you in the attic.”

* * *

Predictably, Mickey and Lip are adamant that he wait for things to calm down before he tries to venture outside, even stooping as low as to set Liam on him. He doesn’t mind so much, though, when the two of them have been getting along so well. He's glad they seem to have let go of their adolescent animosity for each other. _All it took was for me to die,_ he thinks wistfully. He feels even better about the unneeded concern when he catches Debbie and Carl poring over the reports with worried creases in their brows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***EDIT 8/26/15***  
>  i left a note like this on one of my other fics, but i figured it would be best to leave one here as well. due to some mental health issues, i'm not entirely sure when i will be able to update this fic. i'm truly sorry to those of you who were excited about it or otherwise invested in it, and i hope to eventually give you the completed fic you deserve. if you have any questions, comments, or concerns, you can direct them to my blog on [tumblr](http://wolvesandgrls.tumblr.com).

**Author's Note:**

> please leave a comment to let me know what you think! this took a lot out of me, so i'd really appreciate it!


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